The truth, too late
by jomiddlemarch
Summary: After the curse, he was no longer Adam, no longer a Prince but was he yet a Beast? (This is the response to a request for Adam, just post-curse...)


He'd thought he would starve to death. After the enchantress swept away, sudden autumn leaves fluttering behind her into the night, the curse upon him and all who belonged to him, the shock of the change had been so great he'd nearly lost his mind. Adam couldn't recall what had happened to all the guests at the ball, the painted, jeweled women who had looked like exotic blooms in the candlelight, the fewer men who danced among them; his servants had seemed to disappear within their new forms, unable to be of any help and he'd wanted to run through the halls but the new body would not cooperate; it was not swift though it was fierce, that he could feel from within, and he suffered with its vitality. He took to his bed when he found he could still be a man in his dreams. He slept as much as he could, rending the fine sheets and cashmere coverlets with his claws until the housemaid noticed and then they were replaced with the sturdier, coarser cloth the villagers had. Once, he would have needed wine, casks of Burgundy, brandy mixed with poppy to make the journey from waking to dream, but the alteration or his reaction to it, his pressing need for the respite a reverie held, was enough to make night of the day, dusk of every dawn. The dreams could be ordinary, simply walking down the hall and sitting at the table, opening the casement, idly turning the pages of the book he had been reading last, or fantastic—he was capable of the most complex dances, played his own compositions on the zither and the concertina, made love to a slender, dark-haired woman he somehow recognized with only his own two hands, skin against skin, a fangless mouth, listening as she cried out his name _Adam, sweet Adam_ , he whispered in his own voice and not the Beast's growl, _si belle_.

He never wanted to wake and when he did, he could not find a way to eat. The new body would not obey him and he loathed its appetites. Paws with curved claws were not made for any of the bits of silver he'd used to serve himself before and he could not bring himself to devour a meal the way the flesh prompted him, to tear the loaf apart, the fowl, to slobber through the exquisite vintage Lumiere still poured, now into a pewter tankard better suited for ale but less vulnerable than the crystal glass he would have used before. He turned his face away when they came, his butler ticking, the housekeeper's plummy voice wet with tears she shed over her child sleeping in a cupboard. He drank a little water, for thirst was a torture all its own, but he had not understand hunger before and he decided to ignore it now. He hoped to die well before the petals fell on the beguiled rose and he did not listen to the voice within him, his own voice reminding him that his death made the curse eternal for his blameless staff. They cajoled him to eat just a bite, hope just a little, and he wanted to dash it all away but he didn't; he gave them that at least, even if it was the worst he could do.

He woke to find his housekeeper pouring a sugary, milky tea into his mouth, risking her narrow spout against his lethal jaws, spilling into his furred jowls. He could smell the bowl of milk soaked bread beside her and hazily noticed it was a tea-cup with a chipped lip that held the invalid's meal. He pushed her away but took care not to damage her, began to say something that he knew would become a bellow when she interrupted him, all traces of conciliation and nurturing disappeared, saying,

"Please. If you'll only try, then we all might…She cursed us but you are, you are killing us with yourself. The rest have given up already but I won't, I can't. You're my Prince but he's my child," she said, somehow gesturing with her curved handle to the small tea-cup which somehow held all the impatience of the young boy and his endless curiosity.

He looked at her, remembering the woman she had been, could still be, and how she had always beamed at him as she brushed the sleeves of his blue velvet frock-coat, daring to adjust the silvery white curls of his peruke over his shoulders, how her eyes had been dark with grief when his mother died and how he had once wept into her apron and heard her sing Maman's song for him.

"For you, yes. I owe you that," he muttered, hating the sound of the Beast's basso profundo as much as he hated everything else about his form, his reality.

"That'll do. I'd rather you do for yourself, but I suppose that's why she cursed you," Mrs. Potts replied. There was nothing to say to the truth, so he only opened his mouth, his hateful maw, wider and let her bring him back to life.


End file.
